Tag Archives: Anthony Hecht

POETS Day! Poems Found While Reading an Essay by Anthony Hecht

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Illustrated by Rene Sears

[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]

There’s a constant drip to my life now. A background sound would imply direction. This isn’t that. This ubiquitous drip, this relentless hydro-metronome, reverberates from the porcelain of the bathroom behind me, the steel of the kitchen I’m in, and somehow through two bedroom doors from the other bathroom. It is of the house.

In 2010, a cold snap came. We were newly minted homeowners, landed for only a week at the time. The inspection report showed an open heating duct in the crawlspace so I donned my fiscal responsibility hat and had the duct capped immediately on moving in. The pipes froze a few days later and one burst a day or two after that. Chesterton’s fence was under my house.

In Wisconsin and other Big10 locales, pipes are insulated or designed to expand somehow. I’ve read about systems where conductive wires are wrapped around water pipes to provide warmth when switched on. This is all Star Trek stuff to Alabamians. Nobody has that here so we drip our faucets.

It hasn’t been above freezing for three days now. The drip haunts me. Mocks me. Its maddening report more assault than assurance. But what if it stops?

Take a POETS Day. Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. Nothing gets done at work on a Friday afternoon anyway, so go do fun stuff. Or if you live in Alabama, go home and listen. Listen and fear.

Drip. Drip. Dri…

***

I have a copy of Anthony Hecht’s Melodies Unheard: Essays on the Mysteries of Poetry I keep on hand when I’m in the mood. It sits in a stack with Broken Ground: Poetry and the Demon of History by William Logan, the collection of T.S. Eliot essays, Poetry and Poets, and a few like. Sometimes I think I enjoy reading about poetry, criticism and commentary, more than I like reading actual poetry. That might not be odd, but I think it is, and it warms my vanity as personal idiosyncrasies will.

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POETS Day! Anthony Hecht

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© OpenStreetMap-Mitwirkende, openstreetmap.org, CC BY-SA 2.0.

[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]

I used to work for a wine distributor. I’d carry open bottles around in my shoulder strap cooler and pour a taste for buyers and employees at restaurants and wine shops, take orders, and treat people who bought a lot or used to buy a lot but had slipped recently to lunch. It was fun at first, but after a while it became like any other job. The idea of working “in wine” is great and all, but given time and it loses its luster. You’re moving product. Might as well be shoes.

The bonus was the built in POETS Day. You didn’t need to make a “Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday” type declaration, because if all went as planned, trucks checked in that deliveries were made to all your accounts by one or two Friday afternoon and that was that. The wine buyers had weekend diners to plan for, cases to help party throwers carry to their cars, etc. And, you had whatever dregs of tasting wine was left in the shoulder bag to sip with friends. Long lunches that bled into weekends were the norm. Expected.

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POETS Day! Arnold on Dover, Hecht on Arnold

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Photo by Dover Beach by Chris Whippet, CC BY-SA 2.0 , via Wikimedia Commons

[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]

Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. Cool is turning into hot, but humidity is still a few weeks away. This is prime seer-sucker time. Parks where ice cream vendors hang out are calling. Edwardian style military bands don’t play in gazebos anymore like they’re supposed to, but cell phones are everywhere and Amnesty International says cobalt used to manufacture yours may have been mined by children, but the chances will drop considerably by 2025 if the Democratic Republic of the Congo keeps their word and ends the practice by 2025. I’m just messing with you. Nobody thinks about that anymore.

Fire up your music app and stream something you’d think Sgt. Pepper’s would play if they weren’t The Beatles. Oompa band stuff. Fly a kite. Get a hotdog and wish you had one of those hats that feel like they’re made out of rice cakes and have a red, white, and blue band; the ones old politicians pretended they always wore.

Howsoever you spend your POETS Day afternoon, take a minute for a little verse. It’s good for you.

***

Matthew Arnold’s father, Dr. Thomas Arnold, stood as headmaster at Rugby School and took it as his mission to “change the face of education ‘all through the Public Schools of England,’” according to the anonymous biographer at poetryfoundation.org. He was a moralist and a strict Christian who was so identified with his school that when Thomas Hughes wrote his classic novel set at Rugby, Tom Brown’s School Days, he didn’t bother to fictionalize the headmaster. The Doctor was an unavoidable presence at the school during his time and as much a part of the institution as the Old Quad Buildings. That means that in Hughes’s telling, it was Matthew Arnold’s father who expelled the bully Harry Paget Flashman, OBE, Victoria’s Cross, Knight Commander of Bath, Knight Commander Indian Empire, Congressional Medal of Honor (USA), Southern Cross of Honor (Confederate States of America), etc.

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